Every Hour, Advance No one would knowfrom this melancholythat we laughed for daystalkedfor daysdrank in days and nightsdrank in moments and missesdrank the space of sidewalks and talks--found strings and gestures and wild-eyed punsfolded, turned, rolled one to the next, EFFERVESCENTagile like harp-notes, fleeting like feathers,thundering as trains, with crotch-scratching lightersand bar-bashing brass,the cumbersome, awkwardthe flip-finger snark,wit-slice through dark bars and alley-calls,to the next moment,the next cigarette step-out,the next tale of detectives and trailers,the next dream of days.O’Hara and Whitman dance with Shrigley and South Parkdance with beer and whiskey and dance.Like cleavage, you get a sense of it, you look away--in the museum, says Tony, says us about Seinfeldsays us of the savage and gawking and pale,the subtle and forced,the momentary and monumental,the wit-slice melody of logic. You wonder: what do regular people talk about?-Ren Adams, 2015